Page 133 of The Dravenhearst Brides
He undressed her, sliding her sheer slip over her head. “I want you to wear this to bed every night.”
She grinned wickedly. “Only if you promise to turn up the heat.”
Merrick gave a tortured moan, grazing his nose over her peaked nipple. “You know exactly how and when to gouge me, don’t you?”
She was breathless. Could barely form words. “Consider it an investment.”
“Meaning I’ll see returns?”
“You will.”
He smiled and gently nipped her skin. “Deal.”
Even though Margot was positively aching for him, Merrick took his time. Refused to be hurried. He was slow and thorough, taking immense care.
It was a stunning way to be loved, really. Her world narrowed to only him, everything else blurring away at the edges.
Only him, only her.
His hand between her legs.
Her head collapsing back on the pillows.
His fingers inside of her.
Her panting, gasping exhalations.
His tongue, sweeping her entrance, tasting her, wetting her.
Her incoherent mewls, his name on her lips.
His hard tip, just barely pressing in. Spreading her.
Her nails raking his back. Hardly able to stand it.
“Merrick,please.”
He pressed deeper, deeper and deeper still. He buried himself to the hilt with a guttural groan. So big, so full…she could barely take all of him. When Merrick began to move, Margot was lost. Consumed by his slow, heavy thrusts.
He was the most ruinous flavor of madness. The kind she longed to drown in. Forever.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmured, whispering kisses over her neck. “I’ll give it to you.”
“You,” she breathed. “I have only ever needed you.”
The house creaked in the night, resting on tenterhooks. Poised at the edge of a precipice. Wind rattled the windows. Mahogany floors groaned underfoot. Two marriages had come and gone under this roof. The brides still ghosted the halls.
There was always a penultimate night. The one before everything changed.
The wind blew.
Down the hill, the rickhouse waited.
Margot Dravenhearst slept on.
45
September 1918
